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Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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groaned.
“This is it,” Arkady said.
Anton Obodovsky was a Mafia success story. He had been a Master of Sport, a so-so boxer in the Ukraine and then muscle for the local boss. However, Anton had ambition. As soon as he had a gun, he began jacking cars, peeling drivers out of them. From there, he took orders for specific cars, organizing a team of carjackers and then stealing cars off the street in Germany and driving convoys across Poland to Moscow. Once in Moscow, he diversified, offering protection to small firms and restaurants he then took over, cannibalizing the companies and laundering money through the restaurants. The man lived like a prince. Up by eleven A.M. with a protein smoothie. An hour in the gym. A little networking on the phone and a visit to the auto-repair shops where his mechanics chopped cars. He shopped in clothing stores that wouldn’t take his money, dined in restaurants for free. He dressed in Armani black, partied with the most beautiful prostitutes, one on each arm, and never paid for sex. A diamond ring in the shape of a horseshoe said he was a lucky man. At a certain level of society, he was royalty, and yet—and yet—he was dissatisfied.
“It’s the bankers who are the real thieves. People bring the money to you, you fuck them and no one lays a hand on you. I make a hundred thousand dollars, but bankers and politicians make millions. I’m a worm compared to them.”
“You’re doing pretty well,” Arkady said. The cell had a television, tape player, CDs. A Pizza Hut box lay under the bottom bunk. The top bunk was stacked with car magazines, travel brochures, motivational tapes. “How long have you been here?”
“Three nights. I wish we had satellite. The walls of this place are so thick, the reception is shit.”
“Life is tough.”
Anton looked Arkady up and down. “Look at your raincoat. Have you been polishing your car with that? You should hit the stores with me sometime. It makes me feel bad that I’m better dressed inside prison than you are out.”
“I can’t afford to shop with you.”
“On me. I can be a generous guy. Everything you see here, I pay for. Everything is legal. They allow you anything but alcohol, cigarettes or mobile phones.” Anton had a restless, sharklike quality that made him pace. A man could get a stiff neck just having a conversation with him, Arkady thought.
“What’s the worst deprivation?”
“I don’t drink or smoke, so for me it’s phones.” No one consumed phones like the Mafia; they used stolen mobile phones to avoid being tapped, and a careful man like Anton changed phones once a week. “You get dependent. It’s kind of a curse.”
“It’s led to the demise of the written word. You look in the pink.”
“I work out. No drugs, no steroids, no hormones.”
“Cigarette?”
“No, thanks. I just told you, I keep myself strong and pure. I am a slave to nothing. It’s pitiful to see a man like you smoke.”
“I’m weak.”
“Renko, you’ve got to take care of yourself. Or other people. Think of the secondary smoke.”
“All right.” Arkady put away the pack. He hated to see Anton get worked up. There were actually three Antons. There was the violent Anton, who would snap your neck as easily as shake your hand; there was Anton the rational businessman; and there was the Anton whose eyes took an evasive course when anything personal was discussed. Most of all, Arkady didn’t like to see the first Anton get excited.
Anton said, “I just think at your age, you shouldn’t abuse your body.”
“At my age?”
“Look, go fuck yourself, for all I care.”
“That’s more like it.”
A smile crept onto Anton’s lips. “See, I can talk to you. We communicate.”
Arkady and Anton did communicate. Both understood that Anton’s prize cell was available only because of a belated effort to bring Butyrka’s ancient chamber of horrors up to modern European prison standards, and both understood that such a
“This is it,” Arkady said.
Anton Obodovsky was a Mafia success story. He had been a Master of Sport, a so-so boxer in the Ukraine and then muscle for the local boss. However, Anton had ambition. As soon as he had a gun, he began jacking cars, peeling drivers out of them. From there, he took orders for specific cars, organizing a team of carjackers and then stealing cars off the street in Germany and driving convoys across Poland to Moscow. Once in Moscow, he diversified, offering protection to small firms and restaurants he then took over, cannibalizing the companies and laundering money through the restaurants. The man lived like a prince. Up by eleven A.M. with a protein smoothie. An hour in the gym. A little networking on the phone and a visit to the auto-repair shops where his mechanics chopped cars. He shopped in clothing stores that wouldn’t take his money, dined in restaurants for free. He dressed in Armani black, partied with the most beautiful prostitutes, one on each arm, and never paid for sex. A diamond ring in the shape of a horseshoe said he was a lucky man. At a certain level of society, he was royalty, and yet—and yet—he was dissatisfied.
“It’s the bankers who are the real thieves. People bring the money to you, you fuck them and no one lays a hand on you. I make a hundred thousand dollars, but bankers and politicians make millions. I’m a worm compared to them.”
“You’re doing pretty well,” Arkady said. The cell had a television, tape player, CDs. A Pizza Hut box lay under the bottom bunk. The top bunk was stacked with car magazines, travel brochures, motivational tapes. “How long have you been here?”
“Three nights. I wish we had satellite. The walls of this place are so thick, the reception is shit.”
“Life is tough.”
Anton looked Arkady up and down. “Look at your raincoat. Have you been polishing your car with that? You should hit the stores with me sometime. It makes me feel bad that I’m better dressed inside prison than you are out.”
“I can’t afford to shop with you.”
“On me. I can be a generous guy. Everything you see here, I pay for. Everything is legal. They allow you anything but alcohol, cigarettes or mobile phones.” Anton had a restless, sharklike quality that made him pace. A man could get a stiff neck just having a conversation with him, Arkady thought.
“What’s the worst deprivation?”
“I don’t drink or smoke, so for me it’s phones.” No one consumed phones like the Mafia; they used stolen mobile phones to avoid being tapped, and a careful man like Anton changed phones once a week. “You get dependent. It’s kind of a curse.”
“It’s led to the demise of the written word. You look in the pink.”
“I work out. No drugs, no steroids, no hormones.”
“Cigarette?”
“No, thanks. I just told you, I keep myself strong and pure. I am a slave to nothing. It’s pitiful to see a man like you smoke.”
“I’m weak.”
“Renko, you’ve got to take care of yourself. Or other people. Think of the secondary smoke.”
“All right.” Arkady put away the pack. He hated to see Anton get worked up. There were actually three Antons. There was the violent Anton, who would snap your neck as easily as shake your hand; there was Anton the rational businessman; and there was the Anton whose eyes took an evasive course when anything personal was discussed. Most of all, Arkady didn’t like to see the first Anton get excited.
Anton said, “I just think at your age, you shouldn’t abuse your body.”
“At my age?”
“Look, go fuck yourself, for all I care.”
“That’s more like it.”
A smile crept onto Anton’s lips. “See, I can talk to you. We communicate.”
Arkady and Anton did communicate. Both understood that Anton’s prize cell was available only because of a belated effort to bring Butyrka’s ancient chamber of horrors up to modern European prison standards, and both understood that such a
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